


Best

by Teland



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Obsession, Stalking, Surveillance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-11-13
Updated: 1999-11-13
Packaged: 2020-12-28 22:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21144155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Fraser tries to protect Ray from himself.





	Best

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Kasha for beta!

Secrecy, seemingly random irritability, and   
apparent unwillingness to speak of trouble. All   
things Ray had taken him to task for over the   
course of their partnership, with varying   
degrees of rectitude. All things which Ray   
himself had been guilty of for the past   
several weeks. 

The man across from him was too quiet, his   
energy gone from vital to febrile, his hands   
shaky around the third large mug of coffee in   
less than thirty minutes. 

Attempts at pulling Ray out of this new,   
distressing shell had all failed, rebuffed with an   
increasing degree of irritation. There were dark   
circles under Ray's eyes. Fraser sipped his own   
tea as nonchalantly as he could manage, and   
resolved to get to the bottom of the situation. 

Next to Ray, his father tested the other man's  
reflexes with a phantom hammer, grimly   
shaking his head at the negative response.

"Of course it wouldn't. It's not *real*."

"What's not real?"

"The 'cream' you're currently adding to your   
coffee."

"No shit, Sherlock. But it makes this mud   
swallowable, so..."

"Why are you drinking it if it's so unpalatable,  
Ray?" 

One vaguely incredulous look, followed by a   
shake of Ray's head. "Caffeine is the elixir of   
the gods, Frase. Haven't you been civilized long   
enough to know that?"

"Well, I was hardly swinging from trees--"

"Glaciers, trees, whatever. Nanook of the Jungle,  
that's what we'll call you. Or something." 

The image was a humorous one, what with the  
small Inuit man slowly sweating to death under  
all the traditional furs, but Fraser could tell   
Ray's heart wasn't really in it. 

While it was comforting that they had come to   
know each other well enough to easily go   
through the motions of day-to-day conversation,   
Fraser couldn't help being angered by the other   
man's obvious lack of trust in him. 

***

In a difficult way, it was best that Ray was so   
clearly in danger of severe exhaustion. He had   
had no qualms about quietly suggesting to   
Lieutenant Welsh that Ray be kept at the   
precinct house all day while Fraser borrowed   
some equipment in hopes of discovering what  
Ray was hiding. 

The Lieutenant was unflagging in his care and   
concern for his subordinates, and had come to  
trust Fraser's judgment implicitly.

It wouldn't be the first time, after all, that Ray   
had found himself with powerful enemies, and   
it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that   
the man was chafing at the idea of asking for   
help again, after his dependence on Fraser   
during the Volpe matter. 

Even more possible was the idea that Ray might  
be wrongheadedly trying to protect them all   
from... whatever this was. 

Yes... that possibility put things in an entirely   
more favorable light. Ray was prone to acting on  
instinct long past the time more practical men   
had turned to reason, and his heart was large   
and vulnerable. Fraser would find out what was   
wrong, help Ray to find the solution, and then   
they would have a discussion about the meaning  
of partnership.

Fraser was willing to admit to wanting to   
return some of Ray's more pointed words on   
the Henry Allen to him, but they really were   
the best words for the situation. As Fraser set   
up the last of the small cameras in Ray's   
surprisingly neat apartment -- he had already   
determined that the GTO had not left its spot   
in the parking garage overnight in the past   
week -- he had the sense of a job well begun.   
And that was, of course, the first step toward   
a job well done. 

Ray's landlady, Mrs. Jankowski, had appreciated   
the tickets to Aida, and had not much questioned Fraser's   
need for her apartment. He was able to set up   
both recording stations without moving anything   
but a small night-table, leaving him plenty of   
time to fix himself a small plate of bread,   
butter, and pickles from the generous   
amount of food Mrs. Jankowski had left for   
him. After eating he cleaned, and then used   
his estimated ten minutes of spare time to  
nap.

It was 6:32 p.m. when Ray walked in to his   
apartment, and Fraser followed his path with   
relative ease. In through the living area, a   
pause -- perhaps to stretch. The sound of a   
relatively heavy item of clothing hitting the   
leather couch -- most probably his jacket.   
Sounds of rummaging, plastic hitting plastic,   
and then the stereo came on at full blare,  
making Fraser fear for the sensitive equipment  
for a moment before Ray tuned it lower. 

The voice was that of a young boy, the song,   
predictably, about love. More steps to the   
kitchen, Fraser quickened his pace to account  
for the greater amount of obstacles in his   
path, turned the faucet, opened the cabinet,   
and chose the dark blue mug with the kitten   
on it that was the closest thing Mrs.   
Jankowski had to Ray's favored simple black  
ones. 

More coffee? Tea? Simple cocoa? No way to be  
sure. 

Eventually, there were more steps back into   
the living room, the sound of Ray sinking   
into the cushions of his couch. A pause, and   
then it seemed clear that Ray was actually   
lying down for a moment. Fraser did his   
best to emulate the movement in the   
tattered easy chair, and there they remained   
for almost a full twenty minutes.

Fraser could tell by the sound of Ray's   
breathing that he never actually got to sleep.

Uneven but deep. Fraser imagined he could   
hear the other man's heartbeat, how strong   
it would be, how it would seem slightly too   
fast. Biofeedback would let him approach   
that state himself, but he did not wish to   
surrender the ability to concentrate that  
remaining steady and calm afforded him. 

The footsteps seemed to come from   
everywhere at once for a moment -- the   
acoustical quirks were worse on the stairs --   
but then resolved themselves to those of   
one apparently large male, wearing boots   
that seemed much too heavy for this time   
of year. Fraser would never understand   
fashion. The camera in the shadows of Ray's   
hall would be filming the mystery visitor   
even now, but Fraser could not immediately   
give up the vantage of being directly below   
Ray as he moved -- quickly -- to the door.

Ray's hand hit the doorknob, rattling it   
slightly, hesitated, and then Fraser opened   
the door on nothing at all. Turned to the   
side, scuffing the sole of his shoe on the   
floor as he allowed the large phantom to   
pass.

"Shut the door, son, there are things out   
there."

"Not now, Dad, please." His voice seemed   
shockingly loud.

"This isn't what you want to do."

Fraser closed his eyes, let the door latch   
closed just slightly off-time to Ray's.

Listened to the large stranger making his   
way silently, confidently into Ray's home   
with a vague sense of familiar violation. It   
was strange, and not as easily dismissed   
as his father. From upstairs:

"Would you like something?"

"No." Familiar.

"Nothing at all?" An uneasy smile in Ray's   
voice.

"Nothing but the usual... why aren't you   
naked yet?"

Turnbull. Fraser waited for the laughter that   
would... cleanse the situation, but the only sounds  
that came were of leather and cloth hitting the   
floor, buckles loud, very loud against the   
hardwood floor, shoes louder. Breath coming   
faster.

"Not the t-shirt yet."

"All right --"

Heavy fabric sliding over skin. Jeans, perhaps.   
Fraser's own hands were caught, stilled in the   
waistband of jeans, waiting, unsure for the first   
time of the whole endeavor. But... he was here for   
a reason. He skinned out of his jeans quickly,   
listening over the pound of his heart for where --

"Briefs on."

"God, Ren --"

"Shut up."

Click of something that could only be his teeth,   
brief taste of iron in Fraser's own mouth before   
the sounds above forced him to bring the soft,   
sensitive flesh of his inner arm to his lips, forced   
him to be inadequately opened and kiss.

The click of a switchblade or knife, Turnbull's   
undoubtedly, and a purring rip of fabric.  
The knife was grazing the flesh of one thigh,   
tearing at the lycra Ray favored. His own simple   
cotton made nothing like the suitable sounds,   
though the t-shirt was better. And Fraser was nude   
in the ghost of Ray's apartment, alone and cold   
and... not nude but naked. Naked. 

The word made sweat break out all over his skin.

Brief muffled grunt that could be pain, but Fraser   
had no real idea of where it would have been   
localized. He twisted his nipple savagely in   
compensation, longed for the chance to walk toward  
the bedroom and second monitor set-up, but   
the men above him had not moved, except together.

Fraser shuddered and brought his hands to himself,   
rubbing his legs together to duplicate the pull of   
short hair to short hair, caressing his thighs and   
abdomen and face. 

Wet sounds and he brought his arm back up to his   
mouth, fascinated momentarily by spit-shiny flesh   
and the growing bruise before kissing again, mashing  
his lips a little this time. The sounds got closer to   
the ones above, and the satisfaction was so warm...

Another grunt, sliding into a moan and Fraser let his  
head loll back, bared his throat to empty air,   
swallowed hard, dryly and let his hand... the room   
seemed to close in around him, furniture polish and   
aging afghans and wisps of nicotine from a habit   
only a few months broken.

He couldn't do it. 

"Oh Jesus *fuck*, Ren Immmph --" 

Sounds of sucking. Suckling. Wet and hungry and   
beneath that flesh on flesh and moans and the sharp  
but ruthlessly controlled rasps of Turnbull's breath   
and Fraser sunk to his knees, trying and failing to   
ignore the nap of carpeting against his flesh, the   
proof of his intrusion, the swell of heat rising from   
him and struggling to reach his belly.

Sharp yell, another. "Please --" Ray's voice broke on   
the word and the sounds of stroking were even wetter,  
more obscene for the few brief heartbeats that Fraser   
is sure it took Ray to bat away the other man's hand   
in protest. Oh yes, he could see it. Almost feel it.

But he couldn't have anything but this: slide of   
calloused fist around his own cock, familiar and banal.   
The first stroke is simple necessity, the next several   
purest relief and then the sucking sounds begin again.   
Ray is on his knees now, there is no doubt in Fraser's   
mind though he has lost track of the other man's   
movements.

On his knees and the long, slow, exhalation is   
Turnbull taking pleasure in the already swollen red   
mouth. Fraser let his own mouth fall open and   
groaned, losing sight of relief for something better. He   
brought his other hand down to his tightening balls,  
rolled and petted them while fucking his fist. 

Listening and listening and memorizing the sounds   
the two men made, losing himself briefly in the slap   
of what could only be Turnbull's balls against Ray's   
chin, in the exhilarating implication of expertise. He   
would plumb Stanley Kowalski's past, but only when   
it was much, much safer. 

Images gleaned from words he couldn't help but   
hear, thoughts he had not fought hard enough and   
the anticipation heated the coil in his belly even   
more. Fraser let his head fall forward, felt   
sweat-damp hair paste itself to his forehead and   
stroked faster, not bothering to bite back his   
breathless grunts, flicked at the leaking head of his   
cock once, twice, again and again on each upstroke.

The blood in his ears blocked out everything but his  
heart and sex and he was alone in his own heat, alone  
and so close --

Hand in his hair, yanking his head back, hand forcing  
his mouth open and then something small and plastic  
shoved in so far back he nearly swallowed it. The tiny  
trail of wire tickled his throat until he could spit it   
out. 

One of the listening devices. 

"Perhaps you should have locked the door, Constable."

"Nobody likes a nosy parker, Frase."

End.


End file.
